The Wistful Incense
The leather binding of the codex was cracked down the spine, a fissure that ran like a dry riverbed through the center of the cover, and Elias Thorne’s thumb pressed against the rough edge as if trying to hold the book together by sheer will. It was 1924, and the air in the archive smelled of damp wool and the metallic tang of old ink. Elias was forty years old, a man who had spent two decades...
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